


Dark Smoke and Keen Whispers

by lotuskasumi



Series: Emily/Outsider: Weak for you alone. [1]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Neck Kissing, Sensual Play, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 20:48:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8593180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotuskasumi/pseuds/lotuskasumi
Summary: “Yes, that’s how things can slip away,” he continued, frowning, “and yes–it does hurt.”“Then whatever memory it’s from must be very important to you,” she said, grasping at any small thought she could to bring some levity into the conversation.---Emily and the Outsider discuss an old memory as she hears a language lost to time.





	

The Outsider was singing.

More to the point, he was _humming_ , which was as close to singing as he could ever get, Emily supposed. She strained her ears to hear it; he was murmuring so quietly, softer than a breath.

It was a low, soothing tune, too somber for a lullaby, and just a beat off of a pure waltz. It hypnotized her, made her shoulders sway ever so gently back and forth. The song made Emily think of cradles and blankets and warm arms on cold nights. Comforts, sanctuary, and he slow, sinuous creep of a heavier, sharper mood she struggled to place.

“That’s nice,” Emily said, if only to break herself free from the hold the song had on her.

The Outsider peered over his shoulder to look at her, his black eyes inscrutable as always.

“The song, I mean,” she clarified. “It’s… nice.”

He turned his head away and said nothing.

“What’s it from?”

Quick as a wince, the Outsider vanished. The threads of smoke and fog and shards of black rushed together to coalesce on a ledge overhead. Emily craned her neck to peer up at him. He sat straight-backed and stone-faced, his pale hands bent into fists.

“It’s an old song,” he said at last. He laid out the words as if they were shards of glass that needed repair. “A melody lost to mankind, but not to time’s memory.”

“How old is it, exactly?” she pressed, curious.

“Four thousand years,” he deadpanned, smirking down at her. He swung his legs back and forth in an almost child-like way. “Give or take.”

“And you still remember it? I’m impressed,” Emily said, and she was, truly, and also a little horrified. After thousands of years of bearing witness to everything the Isles had to offer, he somehow still managed to hold onto small shards of memories from his time. What must it take to keep them preserved and alive? Emily wasn’t sure how to ask–she wasn’t even sure if she really wanted to know. Surely it had to come with some kind of sacrifice.

“Remembering takes much more effort than forgetting,” he said, and his legs came to a stop. His body went very still again, as if all his focus were on speaking. “You have to pry the memory loose from where you buried it and then hope it fits back into the gaping shape once you’re done. It rarely does, of course.”

“You make it sound so violent,” Emily said, scratching at the back of her neck. Her muscles were starting to cramp from having to peer up at him. Not for the first time, she considered abusing one of the Gifts he gave her and just clawing her way up there.

The Outsider peered down at Emily and kept silent.

She sighed. “Is that how it is for you? Can things just… slip out of your thoughts like that?” she snapped her fingers to demonstrate the ease, and continued. “And does it actually hurt to dig it all up again?”

“You’re asking a lot of questions today.”

“I know I am. And that isn’t an answer.”

He pressed his lips into a pale, thin line and looked away again. Emily waited. She blinked–and he was gone, vanishing in the dark vapor once again.

“Yes, that’s how it is,” he said, speaking from her left.

Emily whirled around to face him. He was leaning in close, his hands clasped behind his back in his usual pensive position. The Outsider began to pace in front of her, a slow, methodical process that reminded her of an animal stalking the limits of his cage.

“Yes, that’s how things can slip away,” he continued, frowning, “and yes–it does hurt.”

“Then whatever memory it’s from must be very important to you,” she said, grasping at any small thought she could to bring some levity into the conversation. Not that levity was something Emily expected to have when talking with the Outsider, but this talk had taken a swift, hard turn into gloom quicker than she would have liked–quicker, even, than she would have guessed.

“It might be,” he said, with the smallest trace of feigned indifference. “I can’t remember what it’s from or why it mattered. I think a woman was involved.” He paused and peered at a spot over Emily’s shoulder, not quite meeting her eyes. “My mother, perhaps,” he said, and only then did his dark, deep eyes ping back to meet hers. “Back when she was still alive.”

Emily’s eyes went wide. The Void was never the most stable place in the best of times, but now it made her reel with a sudden, dizzying pull she could not resist.

Logically she knew there really was no reason why she _should_ be surprised. Of course he had to have a mother at some point; he wasn’t always the Outsider. He had told her as such months ago, when he took her to his island in the Void and confessed how he was killed and born again. Emily regretted not asking him to explain more about it, both back then and with every meeting they had ever since. It just seemed too personal of a wound to dig into without permission, and yet she knew there would never be a right time to drag out the bitter past, either. Such things were angry wounds that needed dressing and tending without hesitation–but still, she hesitated.

In all honesty, Emily half expected him to simply read her thoughts and know what she wanted to ask, thus sparing her the trouble of having to speak. But the Outsider was either highly selective about when he chose to dig into her secrets, or he exerted a conscious effort not to. At any other time in any other situation, Emily would be grateful.

“Would you like to know one more thing I remember?” he asked, gently cracking the silence that yawned between them.

“Tell me,” she said, her voice scratching against her throat.

“I remember the words to the song–not all of it, naturally. Just a small part. And even that small part is gutted and incomplete, fragments best lost to ash.”

“Sing it for me,” she said. “Please.”

“You’re asking quite a lot, Emily.” The Outsider’s impossibly dark eyes glittered as they searched Emily’s face. His thin mouth, twisted up in a smirk, finally straightened out long enough for him to speak–but Emily couldn’t understand a single word.

She stared at him, wide-eyed and amazed once more. “What language is that? I’ve never even heard it before.” To her surprise, Emily heard herself start to laugh. Even more surprising was to see the Outsider offer her a small, almost sheepish smile in return. “Can you at least translate it for me?”

Emily didn’t expect him to disappear this time, to vanish in a whirl of fog and dark smoke and keen whispers. She also didn’t expect him to appear behind her, his voice tumbling out quick and low right beneath her ear.

“’ _Bare your throat to love_ ,’“ the Outsider said, his breath tickling her as he spoke. She shivered, and she felt his hands slowly take hold of her arms, holding her steady. “’ _But what comes next? Is it the knife, or the kiss_?’“

Emily put her hand to the hollow of her throat and held her breath. When his lips found her skin at the very nape of her neck, far from the rapid ticking of her pulse, they were silk soft and winter cold–not knife sharp at all. She shut her eyes and let her head fall back a little, leaning against the sturdy press of his chest. “Do that again,” she whispered.

Only seconds after she spoke did Emily then feel his grin against her neck, along with a hint of teeth and the soft ghosting huff of ancient breath.

**Author's Note:**

> It's slightly canon divergent (that I know of for now) that the Isles were speaking another language four thousand+ years ago. But it made sense to me, considering how much English itself has evolved over even a shorter period of time. Plus I really liked the idea of him having a dead language in his head in incomplete fragments. If I were a better writer I'd actually make up a fake old language for him to sing, but I am but a simple sensual fluff peddler.
> 
> Anyway, if you're on Tumblr and looking for more Emsider content, you can follow @emsider for all your shippy needs.


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